Dhutanga
kammaååhãna monks were motivated by their great
enthusiasm for Dhamma. They regularly endured many
hardships: in their wandering lifestyle, in their living
conditions, and

in their mode of
practice. It was difficult for them to find an excellent
teacher like Ãcariya Mun, a teacher capable of training them
in the authentic way, thus bringing joy to their practice.
Whenever they met him, they were as excited as small
children greeting their parents. The devotion and affection
they felt combined to give them a feeling of complete
confidence in him. Their lives and well-being were placed
solely in his hands. Dhutanga monks naturally tended to have
immense faith in their teacher, revering him so much that
they would willingly give up their lives for him without
regrets. Even when living apart from him, they continued to
feel an extraordinary sense of obligation to their teacher.
No matter how much hardship they endured, or how difficult
their training was, they were contented to persevere so long
as their teacher was supportive. They could manage to put up
with the deprivations they suffered daily – going without,
as often as not –
because they were convinced in their hearts that Dhamma was
more important than anything else. There were times when
they had to sleep in the pouring rain through the night,
shivering like little birds. Still, their determination to
endure adversity for the sake of Dhamma never wavered.

It was always very
interesting to hear dhutanga monks discuss their experiences
of wandering through remote forest areas. The way they
practiced, the way they endured – it was pitiable how, due
to extreme deprivations, they lived in the forest like wild
animals, often sleeping on the ground without shelter. They
used a variety of techniques to intensify their meditation,
experimenting until they found the ones that best suited
their character. They tried: going without sleep; reducing
the amount of food they ate; fasting entirely for as many
days as they could reasonably manage; walking in meditation
all night, from dusk until dawn; sitting in samãdhi for many
hours at a stretch; sitting in samãdhi all night, from dusk
to dawn; sitting in samãdhi on a trail used by tigers when
entering their lair; sitting in samãdhi at night on forest
trails frequented by tigers; sitting in samãdhi in a
cemetery on the day a corpse was being cremated; sitting in
samãdhi at the edge of a precipice; venturing deep into the
mountains at night looking for a particularly scary place to
sit in samãdhi; sitting in samãdhi late at night at the foot
of a tree in a tiger-infested area, relying on the threat of
danger to help the citta attain calm. These methods were all
practiced with the same aim in mind – to torment the citta,
and so forcibly tame its unruly nature.

When a monk
discovered that any one or more of these techniques matched
his individual temperament, he used it to good effect,
focusing his mind and strengthening his resolve, thus
achieving his objective and learning many valuable lessons
in the process. For this reason, dhutanga monks actually
preferred such harrowing practices. Ãcariya Mun himself had
used them and so liked to encourage his monks to do
likewise, insisting that this was the way clever people
trained themselves. These techniques have never been
abandoned – they are still being practiced by dhutanga monks
today.

The training we
undertake to develop our spiritual worth requires a fair
amount of coercion to be successful. The hardships we
experience are insignificant when compared with the good
results we gain: virtue, contentment, discipline, and firm
Dhamma principles to supervise and maintain our lives – all
qualities that people highly value. Only useless junk and
cadavers require no maintenance. The personal worth we hope
to realize will only arise through conscientious
self-improvement, so we should work to maintain this purpose
in our lives. By this means, we will be good, happy,
prosperous people now and in the future. Dhutanga monks
therefore deserve a lot of respect for refusing to allow
adversity and hardship to hinder their practice, thus
clearing the way for Dhamma to develop in their hearts.

So long as people
are interested in practicing Dhamma properly, the Buddha’s
sãsana will last indefinitely in the world. The sãsana
rewards those truly desiring Dhamma who practice
accordingly, giving excellent results at every step along
the path. This principle was embodied in the Lord Buddha,
who was earnest in his pursuit of Truth – a Truth that he
fully realized and then taught to the world. Those who truly
believe in Buddhism are those who earnestly pursue Truth.
They never practice in a halfhearted, inept manner, thus
impeding the sãsana’s progress and devaluing it to the
extent that non-Buddhists find cause to be contemptuous. The
genuine sãsana are the very Noble Truths that deserve to be
proclaimed and accepted throughout the universe without
concern about their validity, since they are true natural
principles emanating directly from the Buddha’s absolute
purity – unless, of course, one is uninterested in Truth or
unable to understand it. In that case, the sãsana may simply
be held hostage within the countless diverse opinions of
people whose hearts are totally obscured by a mass of
deep-rooted kilesas – a veil of defilements that the sãsana
has long since thoroughly penetrated.

Please excuse me for
this lengthy digression – it shows I lack the firm
principles needed to restrain my wayward tendencies. I would
like to continue discussing those harsh training methods
that dhutanga monks tended to use until they became second
nature. Diligently practiced, each of these methods
produces clear-cut results. They help diminish the unruly,
arrogant nature of the mind, a condition exacerbated by
excessive physical vitality. Reducing the intake of food,
fasting, going without sleep, or other harsh methods, such
as walking or sitting in meditation continuously for long
periods of time – all of these practices provide the heart
with the strength required to advance easily on the path of
Dhamma. Other practices are designed for those who are
scared of tigers or ghosts, which when practiced
unflinchingly, force the heart to turn inward where its true
sanctuary lies, remaining there until calm and courage
arise. Fears can be alleviated, or even banished, by such
means. The citta then comes to realize its own strength and
ability so that when it is driven into a corner at a truly
critical juncture – for example, when the body is racked by
excruciating pain – it has the means to emerge victorious,
and survive. Normally, mindfulness and wisdom are fully
aroused only when the citta is placed in a critical
situation. Otherwise, they never have a chance to realize
their full potential.

An excellent way to
develop the capacity of mindfulness and wisdom to act boldly
in full knowledge of their true potential is to use our
basic ingenuity, experimenting with various forceful
techniques until we find those that best suit us. Our hearts
then remain unperturbed, regardless of what happens. Each of
these methods brings its own distinct results. Those who
have long suffered from fear of ghosts can rid themselves of
this debilitating fear by forcing themselves to spend the
night in a cemetery. Those who are terrified of wild
animals, like tigers, can overcome this fear by forcing
themselves to spend the night alone in terrifying
wilderness. Those who have persistent craving for food can
alleviate it, or even overcome it, by drastically reducing
the amount they eat, or by going on fast.

We all appreciate
good food. We tend to believe that eating a lot of good,
tasty food will make us happy. The trouble is: greed never
accepts that it’s had enough. It always hankers for more. No
matter how much discontent it causes us, we fail to consider
that the dissatisfaction stems from our tendency to
overindulge. So, those of us practicing Dhamma for the sake
of understanding ourselves and our attachments must
investigate such desires and exercise some forceful
restraints on their excesses. In the case of dhutanga monks,
this sometimes takes the form of self-imposed austerities.
When a monk notices that a certain type of food kindles an
unseemly craving in his heart, he punishes the craving by
refusing to eat that food. Instead, he eats things that he
feels no desire for. If he feels that he’d like to eat a
lot, he eats only a little instead. Or he may eat only plain
rice, even though there are plenty of other foods to choose
from. Those foods which invigorate the body may hamper his
citta by overwhelming its mental faculties, thus making
meditation more difficult. His practice then fails to
progress as it should, despite the fact that he is striving
with the same intensity as ever. Once he realizes the cause
of the problem, he strives to eliminate it by adamantly
refusing to follow the greed in his heart. This is the
attitude of a monk truly committed to training himself under
the guidance of a good teacher: he resists any temptation to
follow his usual self-indulgent tendencies.

Just as a dhutanga
monk trains himself to be moderate and restrained in what he
eats, so too, when he goes to sleep, he determines to awaken
at a predetermined time. He doesn’t just let sleep take its
course, waking him up randomly whenever it so desires. He
trains himself to carefully consider the appropriateness of
his actions. He resists doing anything that may violate the
ethical principles of Dhamma and therefore be inappropriate,
even though it may not strictly be in violation of the
disciplinary rules. He strives to inculcate Dhamma within
his heart so that it steadily flourishes, never
deteriorating – an extremely difficult task. So difficult,
in fact, that no other endeavor can compare with it.

When, however, we
inculcate the ways of the world in our hearts, defilements
easily arise and flourish, then wait there ready to cause
harm whenever we’re off guard. We can never manage to bring
them under control. In an instant, they furtively infiltrate
our hearts and multiply until we cannot keep track of them
all. We can be sure they will cause us nothing but trouble.
They arise and flourish so quickly that, within the blink of
an eye, they are everywhere, and we are helpless to catch
them. Sexual craving 5 is one such defilement – very easy to
arise but so difficult to purge. Sexual craving creates a
destructive, offensive state of mind that tends to express
itself with unrivaled audacity. Because everyone in the
world is so fond of it, it becomes emboldened, causing
destruction everywhere while ignoring the moral
consequences. It does show some fear of people with Dhamma
in their hearts. But, more than anything else, it is
terrified of the Lord Buddha and the Arahants. Since these
Noble Ones have completely demolished its normal playground,
sexual craving does not dare enter their hearts to prowl
around. But it still creates plenty of trouble for the rest
of us who remain under its power.

Dhutanga monks are
aware that these oppressive kilesas are obstructing their
spiritual progress. That’s the reason they torture
themselves with such arduous training practices. For kilesas
are not in the least disconcerted by the fact that monks
have ordained into the holy life and wear the yellow robes:
the distinctive ‘badge of victory’ for those who defeat the
forces of Mãra. They invariably try to convince monks to
give up the yellow robes and the spiritual quest they
symbolize, refusing to admit defeat regardless of a monk’s
age or seniority. For this reason, dhutanga monks feel
compelled to use coercive methods in their struggle to
eradicate the kilesas from their hearts. They endure and
press ahead in spite of the difficulties, battling pain and
discomfort but never reversing course. Otherwise, the
kilesas will make fun of them as they disgrace themselves
and the yellow robes they wear. Even more damaging is the
discredit they do to the monkhood – an order of spiritual
warriors who never accept defeat – and the sãsana which is
the principal basis for all mankind. Better they sacrifice
their lives to redeem themselves and the yellow robes, than
allow themselves to perish in disgrace. In that way, they
redeem the monkhood and the religion as well.

Dhutanga monks use
such exhortations to embolden themselves to strive for
victory, thus honoring the Dhamma that some day will
undoubtedly lead them to that sublime domain beyond dukkha.
Only the Dhamma of the Lord Buddha is capable of showing the
way to that sublime transcendence. It is without a doubt the
one straight path leading to the land beyond suffering.
There is not a more esoteric way that can be taken to avoid
the difficulty of putting maximum effort into the practice.
Alternative paths are all littered with stumbling blocks
that constantly thwart the wayfarer’s hopes of success. They
inevitably cause pain and frustration, leading to despair
and a lack of confidence that the chosen way will ever lead
to a state of total freedom.

Before emerging as a
revered teacher of such renown, Ãcariya Mun practiced with
the attitude that cemeteries were irrelevant to him. That
is, he was prepared to discard his body wherever he happened
to be when he breathed his last breath. He felt no qualms
about dying for the sake of Dhamma. Later, when instructing
his students, he taught them in a forceful, dynamic fashion
that stressed the sharp, incisive tactics he had honed to
perfection in his own practice. His teaching was mentally
stimulating, helping his students constantly develop new
skills to see through the cunning tricks of the kilesas and
thus uproot and destroy them once and for all. Only then
would they be safely out of danger, living contentedly
without dukkha. They would no longer meander through the
round of saÿsãra, where one birth changes into

another
continuously, but the dukkha, that is carried around in the
heart, remains unchanged – regardless of how many times one
is reborn. Since each new life is merely a new instrument
for one’s own destruction, no one should be satisfied with
birth in any realm of existence. It is equivalent to a
prisoner changing cells within the same prison: as long as
he remains imprisoned, there is no fundamental improvement.
The wise well understand the dangers of the cycle of
repeated birth and death. It’s as though with each new birth
the heart has moved into yet another house that is on fire:
no matter where it’s reborn it can never escape the threat
of danger. This is but a small taste of how Ãcariya Mun
routinely taught his dhutanga disciples. Perhaps some of my
readers will discover an affinity for his style of teaching.

O N UPOSATHA
OBSERVANCE days, when as many as forty to fifty additional
monks attended from various locations, Ãcariya Mun gave
discourses on Dhamma that generally differed from those he
gave exclusively to the monks who regularly lived with him.
Although his uposatha discourses were often forceful and
profound, they could not match the ones given regularly to
the monks living in his monastery. Those talks were truly
dynamic, and penetrating. Each time he spoke, the impact of
his Dhamma was so powerful it seemed to dispel the kilesas
from the hearts of his listeners, as if the whole world had
momentarily vanished from their awareness. What remained was
an awareness of the heart united in perfect harmony with
Dhamma, an experience so amazing and gratifying it defies
description. For days thereafter the dynamic power of his
Dhamma seemed to subdue their kilesas, as though he had
issued them all a defiant challenge. Inevitably, their
kilesas gradually reemerged after several days, until they
were finally back in full force. By then, another meeting
had been scheduled where Ãcariya Mun subdued them once more,
giving the monks a few more days of relief.

All dhutanga monks
earnestly striving to reach the Dhamma that transcends
dukkha feel an exceptionally strong bound with their
teacher. Eradicating the kilesas requires that individual
effort be inextricably combined with the help and advice of
a good teacher. When confronted with an intractable problem,
a monk practicing on his own will hurry back to consult his
teacher who clarifies the nature of the problem, allowing
the student to understand its underlying causes and so
overcome his doubts. Sometimes while a monk is struggling
with a problem which is too complex for him to resolve on
his own, his teacher unexpectedly explains the solution of
that very problem to him, immediately eliminating that
obstacle so his student can proceed unhindered.

Practicing monks are
able to determine the precise levels of Dhamma that their
fellows, and even their teacher, have attained by listening
to their discussions about meditation practice. This
knowledge helps to foster an atmosphere of mutual trust
within the circle of practice. When a monk explains the
nature of his experiences and the stages he has passed
through, it is possible to immediately determine the level
of Dhamma he has realized from that description. When a
student tells the teacher about his experiences in
meditation, or when he asks advice about a specific problem,
he can assess his teacher’s level of attainment at that time
by gauging his responses. If the teacher has passed beyond
that point himself, he is already familiar with those
experiences, and he is able to use them as a starting point
to advise his student on how to proceed. Or, in the case of
a specific problem, he is able to pinpoint the nature of the
problem in such a precise way that the student accepts his
advice without reservation. Perhaps a student deludes
himself into thinking he has reached the highest level of
Dhamma, having completely transcended the different stages.
But, the teacher, through his own experience, knows this to
be untrue. The teacher must then explain to his student why
he is wrong, pointing out exactly where his thinking went
astray. Once he is willing to accept the validity of his
teacher’s reasoning, he can safely avoid such dangers.

Once dhutanga monks
have discussed the various aspects of meditation practice
among themselves and reach the point where they know and
accept the truth of their respective levels of attainment,
there is then no need for further confirmation. The
principles of truth that have been discussed constitute
their own proof. Practicing monks use this knowledge to
determine one another’s level of Dhamma. From the teacher on
down to the junior monks, they all rely on evidence gathered
in this way. As for intuitive knowledge of these matters, it
requires an inner faculty to which I can lay no claim. I
shall leave this matter to those with the appropriate
expertise. It is a special case requiring individual skill.

The regular
conversations on meditation that Ãcariya Mun held with his
disciples enabled them to develop close personal
relationships with him. Due to the profound respect this
tutelage inspired, they willingly entrusted their lives to
his care. This deep faith induced them to unreservedly
accept as true whatever he told them, for he always spoke
about principles of truth, never presenting mere opinions or
guesswork based on information from other sources.

I myself have always
been someone with strong views, being reluctant to submit to
anyone’s judgment. So I liked to argue with him. In this
respect, I admit to being one of Ãcariya Mun’s more annoying
and contentious disciples. Sometimes I was so caught up in
disputing an issue with him that I forgot I was a student
seeking his guidance – not a teacher instructing him. I
still pride myself on my audacity to speak up, having no
sense of misgiving. Although he then slapped me down and
chopped me to pieces, the important thing was: I was able to
learn for myself whether the truth lay in my opinions, or in
the wisdom of my teacher. When I argued with him, it sounded
like a shouting match. The more I pressed my case, the more
I realized that he had all the truth on his side. I had only
my inane fallacies, piled up all around me. I always fought
a losing battle. When the dust settled, I thought long and
hard about what he said, respectfully accepting its truth
with all my heart. At the same time, I made a mental note of
my misconceptions. On occasions when I refused to yield to
his reasoning because I still couldn’t understand what he
was getting at, I would wait for another opportunity to
debate with him. But I always came away bruised and battered
by the power of his reasoning, my opinions tied in knots.
Still, I could not resist smiling to myself, delighted by
the mighty power of his Dhamma.

Although Ãcariya Mun
realized full well that I was wildly opinionated, he did not
scold me or try to force me to change my attitude. Instead,
he could not help but smile when looking at me. He may have
been thinking how insufferable I was; or he may have felt
sorry for this idiot who liked fighting with such diehard
assurance. I must admit: I was never a very fine person.
Even today, I still shamelessly argue with senior ãcariyas.
But it’s paid off for me in the sense that I’ve learned many
unusual lessons this way which form a valuable part of my
education to this day. These monks never seem to mind my
intrusions; in fact, they are often amused by them. It’s not
so often that a stubborn old monk drops by to stir things
up. Ordinarily, no one dares come and argue with one of
these ãcariyas. So when the monks in his monastery hear
what’s going on, they become rather puzzled – and more than
a little alarmed.

AFTER LEAVING CHIANG
MAI, where he passed beyond the thick jungle of repeated
birth and death, he invariably had a profound reason in mind
when he decided to live in any one place for a long time,
although he kept these reasons to himself. Nakhon Ratchasima
was a case in point. Many monks and lay people there had
long developed a true devotion to Dhamma; so, many of them
came to study with him as accomplished meditators. Later,
some

followed him to Udon
Thani and Sakon Nakhon where they continued to study with
him until he died. The monks and laity from Nakhon
Ratchasima who kept in contact with him were all well
established in meditation practice. Some of those monks have
since become famous ãcariyas who possess a firm basis of
Dhamma in their hearts, and are still teaching monks and
laity today. Many lay devotees have continued to see steady
progress in meditation. Today, they show the way of
generosity and spiritual development to other devotees in
the area in a truly commendable fashion.

He next settled at
Udon Thani, where he spent the rains retreat. Chao Khun
Dhammachedi, the abbot of Wat Bodhisomphon monastery, was an
influential monk with a large following of monks and lay
supporters. He praised Ãcariya Mun’s preeminence,
encouraging them all to make his aquaintance, offer
donations and, above all, hear his teaching. Since his
ordination, Chao Khun Dhammachedi had been a devoted
disciple, and Ãcariya Mun reciprocated by showing unusual
kindness and affection toward him – thus, his willingness to
stay several years in Udon Thani.

Later after moving
to Sakon Nakhon and living at Ban Na Mon, Ãcariya Mun met an
elderly, white-robed nun who ran a small convent in the
village. She was a major reason why he remained there as
long as he did: her meditation was exceptionally good. She
had developed a firm basis in Dhamma, so Ãcariya Mun gave
her regular instructions on practice. He said it was rare to
find someone so accomplished.

Ãcariya Mun’s
lengthy residence at Ban Nong Pheu was prompted by both the
significance of the location and the people living in the
village. The place was centrally situated in a very broad
valley, completely surrounded by mountains, making it an
ideal environment for the dhutanga life. Living in the
village was an elderly white-robed lay woman who was
approaching eighty. Much like the elderly nun at Ban Na Mon,
she was an accomplished meditator who always received
special attention from Ãcariya Mun. She consulted him
often, walking with difficulty from her home to the
monastery. Shuffling slowly along, supported by a cane, she
had to stop for rest three or four times before she finally
arrived at the monastery, exhausted and out of breath. We
all truly felt sorry for her. Seeing her struggle so
painfully, Ãcariya Mun would feign disapproval: “Why come
all the way out here? Don’t you realize how exhausted you
are? Even children know when they’re tired. Here you are
eighty, ninety years old, yet you still don’t know when
you’re worn out. Why do you take all the trouble to come
here?”

Her reply was always
characteristically straightforward and fearless. He then
inquired about her meditation and explained various aspects
of Dhamma relating to it. Not only had this woman developed
a solid foundation for her meditation, she also possessed
paracittavijjã, the psychic ability to know the fundamental
moral bias of a person’s heart. On top of that, she had a
knack

for perceiving
unusual external phenomena. Addressing Ãcariya Mun, she
recounted these extraordinary perceptions with a daring
self-assurance that amused him, causing him to laugh about
her indomitable spirit.

“Your
citta has long since gone beyond”, she boldly declared.
“I’ve
been aware of your citta for a long time – it’s absolutely
without parallel. Since your citta is already so supreme,
why do you continue to meditate?”

Ãcariya Mun laughed.
“I will resolutely continue meditating until the day I die.
A disciple of the Buddha never allows his resolve to
weaken.”

To this she said:
“If you still had more to accomplish, I could understand
that. But your heart is already filled by an exceedingly
luminous radiance. How can you go further than that with
meditation? I look at your citta and see its radiance
encompassing the whole world. Your awareness extends
everywhere – nothing can possibly obstruct its scope. But my
own citta sadly lacks such supreme qualities, which is why I
must come to ask your help. Please tell me: how should I
practice to attain the same preeminence you have?”

Hearing her
discussions with Ãcariya Mun, one sensed that her meditation
was truly exceptional. Upon encountering a problem, she
inevitably started dragging herself slowly down the path to
the monastery, with her cane keeping her company. Ãcariya
Mun was especially kind to her: he made a point of advising
her every time she came. On such occasions, the monks would
sneak up to listen quietly at one side of the meeting hall
where their discussions were held, eager to hear her
questions and his answers. Because her questions arose
directly from her own experiences in meditation, these
exchanges fascinated the monks. Some of her doubts concerned
internal matters, focusing on intrinsic Noble Truths; other
questions related to external affairs and focused on the
deva and brahma realms. If Ãcariya Mun accepted her
understanding of these matters as being correct, he
encouraged her to continue her investigations. But if he did
not agree with the course she was pursuing, he advised her
to forgo that approach, explaining how she should adjust her
practice to set it right.

Her claims to
knowing their minds intrigued the monks who, though eager to
hear her insights, were also rather apprehensive about what
they might reveal. But she always described an impressive
vision: radiant auras of increasing brilliance, from the
young novices on up to Ãcariya Mun, resembling the night
sky’s array of stars and planets: some were bright, some
less so. It was a majestic sight, for not even the junior
monks or young novices had somber, gloomy states of mind.
Each being admirable, every monk was worthy of respect in
his own way as he strove to

improve and refine
himself spiritually. Sometimes she recounted her visits to
the brahmaloka, describing how she saw large numbers of
monks, but no lay people. This puzzled her, so she asked
Ãcariya Mun to explain – which he did.

“The
brahmaloka is mostly inhabited by monks who have already
attained the level of Anãgãmï, that’s why. When a monk who
has attained Anãgãmï dies, he is reborn in the brahmaloka.
Very few lay people develop themselves to that level, so
they rarely gain access to the brahma realms. Thus you saw
only monks there, but no lay people. Another thing: if
you’re so curious, why didn’t you ask one of the monks you
saw? Neglecting to ask them while you were there, you now
want to come and ask me.”

She laughed. “I
forgot to ask them. I didn’t think about it until I’d come
back down, so I decided to ask you. If I remember, next time
I go up I’ll ask those monks.”

Ãcariya Mun’s
explanations usually had a dual purpose: to expound the
truth of the matter, and then to clear up her doubts. Later
he discouraged her from sending out her awareness to
perceive external phenomena, for it used up the valuable
time she needed to spend investigating internal phenomena
and the basic principles underlying them – investigations
leading directly to the realization of magga and phala.
Obediently, she practiced as he advised. He often praised
this woman’s meditation practice, telling his monks of her
high achievements in Dhamma – a level of success that many
of them could not emulate.

Her practice, no
doubt, was a factor in his decision to live so long at Ban
Nong Pheu – the longest residence of his monastic life.
Also, it was a convenient central location serving all the
practicing monks living and wandering in the surrounding
area. Well within walking distance of his monastery were
many secluded places, suitable for practice. Monks had a
choice of staying in wooded lowlands, high mountains, or
caves – all being environments conducive to the ascetic way
of life.

Ãcariya Mun lived at Ban Nong Pheu monastery for five years.
Because of his advanced age – he was seventy-five years old
with failing health when he began staying there – he
remained within the confines of the monastery all year,
unable to wander extensively as he had in the past. He was
content to provide sanctuary to all his disciples earnestly
seeking Dhamma. While he was living there, the devas seldom
contacted him, tending to visit only on certain special
occasions. So he concentrated his efforts on assisting the
monks and laity more than he had at other places.